


Better Left Unsaid

by jibberjabber599



Category: The Borgias
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-03
Updated: 2013-07-03
Packaged: 2017-12-17 14:19:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/868544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jibberjabber599/pseuds/jibberjabber599
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A part of her always knew her second marriage would end this way, really, the night they were wed. The night she chose the man she wanted over the boy she had been given.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Better Left Unsaid

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: Incest. Zero historical accuracy. Basically just like the show, but not as good lol. Excuse any grammatical errors.

A part of her always knew her second marriage would end this way, really, the night they were wed. The night she chose the man she wanted over the boy she had been given.

The dried blood of her husband smeared on her face, hands, clothes, she feels as if she bathed in it. His body is no longer warm, she realizes as she burrows her head one last time in the crook of his neck. But with eyes clenched shut she can still feel the warmth of his blood as it steadily gushed from his wound and ran in rivulets of crimson down her pale skin.

The fatal wound dealt by the sword grasped in her brother’s hand. No, this tragic end of a marriage-the one she had been so hopeful over in the small amount of time they had been betrothed-is truly not that shocking at all.

As if she could hope to find happiness in one that did not share the same blood coursing through her veins, hope for what she now knew was impossible. Maybe they could have been happy in a world where her gaze would not seek out her brother’s when he entered a room, where she did not gravitate towards him, where she did not yearn above all to be wrapped in his embrace.

She knows even a happy marriage would not have changed that, would not have truly satisfied her if her brother was near.

And if she had found happiness with the sweet boy she once thought she could love passionately, what is to say her brother, her father, would have let them remain so when it ceased to benefit their own ambitions?

I am to blame, I should have somehow prevented this, she had thought in despair as she poured the poisonous liquid past Alfonso’s trembling lips, wiped the water that escaped from the corner of his mouth to mix with his blood with a gentle swipe of her thumb.

At her husband’s bidding, his plea to end the pain, she had poured death down his throat.

She had watched the life drain out of his eyes, watched his chest heave as his last shuttering breath left his body. She had pressed her lips to his still-warm forehead one last time, tears clinging to her lashes. She had killed his spirit. She had killed him.

They had killed him.

Her grip loosens on the cup as she curls into Alfonso’s body, guilt making her head pound. She wills darkness to take over, yearns for a small reprieve, but it does not come. She does not pray for it, does not pray for anything.

By the time her brother enters the room to softly call her name, resignation has weighed down her bones, replaced the guilt. She does not summon the strength to answer his call, to assure him, does not want to. Let him think her dead, her soul departed and never to be reached again.

Feel the pain I feel, Cesare, if only for a moment, she wills silently.

His tone turns frantic and afraid as his hands turn her over, palm pressing briefly to her mouth to check if she has left him.

For as long as she is breathing, she will never be rid of the blood on her hands, just as she will never be rid of him.

Her heart and her body, both betray her as he swipes a damp cloth over her cheekbones. She leans into his touch as he cleanses her, brands her with hot open-mouthed kisses on her collarbone.

Only after he has washed the blood from her face and hands does he climb back on the bed. Calloused fingers strip her slowly, tortuously, and she is sure if she met his eyes she would see the same determination she sees when he talks of conquering, of his army, of war.

She notices one solitary smear of blood above her breast; the only he has left on her. It serves as a reminder of what they have just done, what they shall do, until his head dips and his tongue licks at the temporary stain—long, languid strokes that have her pulse spiking and her lip caught between her teeth, blood drawn to the surface in hopes to contain her moans.

“I am numb,” she declares falsely, fervently wishing her words could make it so, when he divests her of her last shred of clothing. She is naked, as he vowed, but he does not touch her just yet, merely takes in her nude form with the same look of awe he had the first time, the last time. She is his, as he vowed, and her traitorous body that knows this visibly reacts to the heat in his gaze, nipples hardening, and his lips twist into a cruel smirk.

Those same lips brush tenderly down her body, worshiping, and she feels tears prick her eyes once more. But no, she will not cry, so she wraps her hand around his nape, clasping him to her breast, and then rakes her nails down the length of his back.

His skin tears under the sharpness, the pressure, and her fingertips are wet with blood once more. She smirks victoriously when he hisses from the sting. He shall have welts after this, perhaps even scars. Rightly so, she thinks, if I am to leave bearing scars from this night, so shall he.

His head dips lower, between her thighs, forcing them open in a grip that is sure to leave bruises. Always marking her, she muses dazedly before pleasure dominates her senses. His tongue is relentless, his grip just so when her hips buck. He pulls away too soon, wet lips pressing a kiss against her thigh before he nips teasingly, and she can feel them curve when he smiles at her groan. Her fingers tangle roughly in his hair, pulling the strands until his tongue begins working at her once again, anchoring him to the place he belongs.

Later, after their breathing has slowed and after the realization of what they have done has sunk in, she turns her gaze to her husband’s corpse, a wave of nausea hitting her as she crawls out of Cesare’s arms.

He breaks the silence. “Say something.”

She does not miss how it is more of a demand than a plea.

The silence is deafening, thick and heavy, like the smell of sex and blood that lingers in the air. She wants to beat her fists against him, wants to curse him. Instead, she stays silent, makes no move to cover herself. For what is there to hide, anyway?

“Lucrezia?”

Rough fingers grip her chin in an attempt to turn her face away, but she rips them off. She remembers her words to him before, his reply. The devil indeed, she thinks. Not even God Himself could stay in a room where so many sins were committed. God would never forgive them. And how could she forgive Cesare when she cannot fathom forgiving herself?

His touch is softer when he reaches for her again, and with it comes the staggering awareness of the sweetness between them now lost forever.

“Was it not you who told me once, dear brother, that some things were better left unsaid?”

Her bitter words have the desired effect, because this time, he allows her to push him away.

She hears him leave the room some time later, as she is shutting Alfonso’s unseeing eyes.

What could console you, sis? She hears his voice inquire.

She had answered another child, his child; not her husband’s.

She clutches her bare stomach, and this time when she weeps it is not for her husband, for the life she could have had now lost forever-it is for her future.


End file.
